Seven Days at 221B Baker Street
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Exactly as the title says, a collection of unrelated, random drabbles for each day of the first annual Week of Sherlock Holmes. A new drabble for each day of the Week, July 30th - August 5th. Seventh prompt: Friends. Best friends. T for a safety net and language.
1. Bath Time

**30th July**

Sherlock stares up the ceiling of the bathroom. There's a particular case, a particular clue that he's missing. Lestrade has taken him off the case, because New Scotland Yard has already arrested someone. They have arrested the wrong person; Sherlock is sure of it. Scotland Yard, as it was, was full of idiots who said otherwise. Unfortunately, without evidence, even Lestrade couldn't do anything.

There was nothing, virtually nothing, at the crime scene. There had been no other outstanding clues. No other evidence. There was _something_ that they were missing... something that he was missing.

It is, literally, driving him crazy.

He is in the bath, stretched out in the way that he can, utilizing every inch of space within the porcelain enclosure. One arm, the right one, in fact, rests lazily across his stomach. The left arm is still, propped up on the edge of the bathtub, three nicotine patches forming a crude triangle like symbol. He's being careful not to get those patches wet. He needs those patches.

A sigh exits his lips, body heaving, water moving gently with the motion. It's rather hot- he doesn't take baths in other way except exceedingly hot. The mirror has long since steamed over and there's sweat on his face; he pays no mind to either, only fishes around in his mind for something, _anything_, that he has missed.

He sinks slightly lower in the water, leaning his knees against the sides of the bath. Uncomfortable, but he doesn't need to be comfortable to think or bathe. John says he's too tall. Sherlock lazily hangs onto the idea that his response revolves around the bath being too small. Either way, he doesn't care.

He raises a hand, carding his fingers back through his wet hair. There has to be something, _something_, he knows, but what-

He pauses with his fingers still tangled in his hair.

Shampoo. Of course. The shampoo...!

Sherlock stands rather abruptly, the water crashing over the sides of the bath and onto the floor. Paying no mind to the mess, he grabs his dressing gown off the floor and wrenches the bathroom door open.

He is somewhat surprised to find John outside the bathroom door, hand raised as if to knock.

"Shit- Sherlock, what- what the _hell_? Put on clothes!"

Sherlock frowns and helps John out of his way, padding with a sopping body towards the kitchen. Somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen, he works his arms through the dressing gown's sleeves, although not bothering to tie the sash.

"Sherlock, you're sopping wet! You're dripping all over the floor!" John says, in a scolding tone of voice, Sherlock reckons, but he doesn't look up. "What the hell is so important to walk around in the nude, anyway?"

"Case. Shampoo. It's the shampoo, John; we've seen this before!" Sherlock snaps, reaching for a slide for his microscope. He just had to test it, just needed the proof...

"It's poison?"

"Most likely," Sherlock ascertains, pirouetting to grab a pipette off the kitchen table.

"Oh, for God's sake," John mutters. "I'll just get you some clothes." His voice trails off as he walks, Sherlock assumes, back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock deletes the conversation that John has just insisted on having, instead submerging himself head-first into solving the case.

* * *

**Welcome to the first day of the first annual Week of Sherlock Holmes! Oh, I am so excited, because, you know what, it's actually _legit_. It's not an obsessive thing I've made up! And it feels great!**

**Anyhoo, I'll be doing a fic a day for the next six days, one for each day of the Week (July 30th - August 5th). They will be unrelated, random things that are, just basically, days at 221B Baker Street. **

**To my prompter, I know you said you wanted a plot. But. It's so hard to create a plot for a drabble that I want to keep short. I am sorry. But I hope you like it, nonetheless. **

**Reviews and follows are fans partaking in the first annual Week. (Well, and they make me happy. xD) Thanks for reading!**


	2. Toothache

**31st July**

John hears Sherlock's sudden, sharp intake of breath even though it's quiet. He glances up, glances up right as Sherlock's eyes flicker away from him, somewhat guiltily, if John were to be honest. John narrows his eyes slightly before he looks away again.

The mystery goes unsolved, and unmentioned, for a handful of hours.

This time, Sherlock doesn't gasp, doesn't make a noise, but he flinches nearly imperceptively, fingers twitching. At this point, John has had enough of wondering what is wrong with his flatmate.

"What's gotten into you?" he asks, folding the Daily Mail up and placing it on the floor.

"Hm?" Sherlock looks up, eyebrows knitting together.

"Are you ill?"

"Why would I be ill?"

John sighs. "You're not inhuman. But you've flinched. And, just, displayed a few signs of pain recently."

Sherlock almost glares. John thinks, for a moment, that he's hit a nerve, until John realizes that he hasn't- he's hit the problem head on the nose, instead.

Sherlock flinches again, his fingers flying, probably unconsciously, to his cheek.

John jumps onto Sherlock's action almost immediately. "Toothache!" Then he pauses at the absurdity of it. "You have a toothache?"

"Brilliant deduction, John," Sherlock mutters, sulkily, in return. He stands and pads quietly to the back hall.

"Wait, how do _you_ get a cavity?" John questions, pushing himself up from his chair and following. "Forget to brush?"

Sherlock is rummaging through the cabinet, one hand still pressed against the presumed sore spot. He doesn't answer.

"Had too many of Mrs. Hudson's cakes?"

John, although he knows it's _really_ not funny, can't help but to tease the consulting detective a bit.

"You know you're going to have to get that checked out, right?"

Sherlock only ignores him and pops two paracetamol, brushing past him afterwards. John watches him go with a sense of amusement, although he secretly hopes that Sherlock will give in and go to the dentist soon- he doesn't even want to _imagine_ what Sherlock would be like with a terrible toothache.

* * *

**Sorry Sherlock. I had to. And before anyone calls me out on OOC-ness! Sherlock _does_ ask Mrs. Hudson for cakes, if you'll refer to John's blog. "So... _there_," as John would say.**

**Leave your thoughts, please and ta!**


	3. Instruments

**1st August**

"You're wrong!"

John pauses on the staircase, readjusting his grip on the grocery bag. That had been Sherlock's voice... Sherlock was worked up.

"Sherlock? Are you talking to yourself again?" he calls, clearing the last few stairs and stepping into the living room. He is met with a quick, livid glance from his flatmate and a brief glance from a man that John didn't recognize. Since he doesn't recognize him, and it is unlikely that Sherlock is acquainted with him, it is likely a client.

A client that is holding precariously onto Sherlock's violin.

"Um... I'll let you two at it," John says, carrying on to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

"Violins are a... competitive instrument, aren't they, Mr. Holmes? Something attention grabbing. Higher pitch. A 'voice' instrument. The star of the show." There is the singular plucking of a note.

John glances back over his shoulder. Whoever this man is, he is exceedingly bold. Sherlock won't even let _John_ touch that instrument.

"You know what I think? That violinists are cocky, self-centered, arrogant, annoying people who think themselves to be better than everyone else."

"Fortunately, I don't care what you think," Sherlock replies tartly, position stiff. Everything about him is screaming _anger_ and John thinks that their client has to be a rather stupid man to not notice that.

"But you do, don't you?" their client muses, plucking another note.

Sherlock's nostrils flare and he crosses the room, pulling the Stradivarius from the man's grasp. "No, I'm simply astounded that you have the audacity to come into my flat and play with _my_ instruments. Didn't your mother ever teach you not to touch things that don't belong to you?"

"You started the argument, Mr. Holmes."

"Argument? What argument?" John cuts in quickly, abandoning the groceries, just in case Sherlock loses his already slipping temper.

"Your flatmate refuses to acknowledge the superiority of violas."

John pauses, his eyebrows knitting together. "Wait... what?"

"It's not important that he refuses to see that his instrument is exceedingly _cow-like_," Sherlock mutters.

"Wait, what is this about?" John asks, now looking at Sherlock.

"Just because violas are larger than violins-"

"Cumbersome and irritating," Sherlock mutters.

"Listen, Mr. Holmes, I frankly don't care about your opinion-"

"Good, then go."

"Unfortunately, we need you."

"Not interested."

"Simply because of a dispute over instruments-"

"No," Sherlock interrupts, "I'm simply going to make your life easy because I'm a, what was it, 'cocky, arrogant, annoying' person with a tendency to 'want to steal the spotlight' all for myself with my 'whiny' voice. Unfortunately for _you_, this lark has no desire to associate with cows."

John frowns at Sherlock after the man leaves. "What the bloody hell was that all about?"

Sherlock only huffs quietly and draws his fingers over the strings of his Stradivarius. "Nothing, John. Those who are not musically-inclined would not understand," he says, reaching for his bow.

"Hey, I know the clarinet."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and begins to play. John throws his hands up before going back to the kitchen.

* * *

**Viola players, got nothing against you. xD Personally, I think I still like violins better. Although, I am prejudiced.**

**For those non-musically-inclined (me!):**

**Violas have a deeper sound. Violins can be whiny on their highest note. Violas don't get solos most of the time; violins do. They are heard, and remembered. Violas are mostly not. Apparently, in the orchestra, at least around here, people think of people who play violins as described above. I do not play an instrument. I got my information from a friend in orchestra and a Youtube video.**

**Review, as usual, if you'd like. Thanks!**


	4. Foot

**2nd August**

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"What is this."

"What is what?"

"This bag."

"Oh, it's a foot."

"... What did I tell you about putting body parts in the fridge?"

"I put it in the back!"

"That... that does not help."

"It's also in a bag. Stop being so demanding; you should be thanking me."

"_Th-Thanking _you? For putting a bloody foot in the fridge?"

"For putting it in a bag and pushing it to the back. I steer clear of your beer, now don't I."

"Oh, thanks so much."

"I could do worse, you know."

"Undoubtably, but. Don't."

"Right, fine. Keep it in mind."

"You've already deleted it, haven't you?"

"Deleted what?"

John sighed, closing the fridge door again.

* * *

**I literally had no idea. Except Poptarts. But I feel like Poptarts are way too Americanized. xD So, told my mom 'Give me a one word prompt!' and she said refrigerator. Voila.**

**It's a bit boring. But you've got to have the body parts. You just have to. xD**


	5. Need You

**3rd August**

John shifted his position, drawing forth a more comfortable position from his sitting in the chair. The flat was quiet. Sherlock had gone out. Didn't invite John. John was fine with that; it was raining outside, anyway. The weather still brought forth discomfort from the wound in his shoulder. John didn't know if Sherlock knew that, and didn't tell him to come along for such reason, or if he just got excited and ran out. Most likely the latter.

John didn't mind it as much as he did. He'd stopped worrying about it. Because, in the beginning, he was mildly ashamed to say that he had followed so willingly after Sherlock because he wanted to make sure that Sherlock wouldn't abandon him. That Sherlock wouldn't run off somewhere and never come back for John.

And, God, that was selfish.

Blame it on his past. Blame it on the friends, blame it on the war... But he had been lonely. He had been depressed. He had been a black sheep in a world of white, fluffy ones. So, accordingly, he had gotten a complex. Thankfully, when he had gotten used to Sherlock, gotten used to his idiosyncracies... He was stupidly happy to have a friend. A friend, who didn't think of John as a friend, but that was all right.

John knew he'd go to the end of the earth for Sherlock, knew Sherlock probably wouldn't do the same for him, but he didn't care. He trusted Sherlock more than what was healthy for him- if Sherlock ever did something ridiculous like leaving him, John wouldn't be able to cope.

But, hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't do that. Sherlock wouldn't dare... Sherlock wouldn't want to, right?

Footsteps on the stairs brought John's attention out of his thoughts. His eyes swiveled to the door in time to watch the consulting detective round the landing to take the stairs up to the living room. John smiled faintly. Sherlock would always come back. For some reason.

John didn't know what Sherlock saw in him, but he didn't care. Friend or colleague or experiment... As long as he kept coming back.

"Have a nice run?" John asked, looking at Sherlock's person. He had been out in the rain; that much was obvious from the small drips of water hitting the floor, coming from his coat, dripping from his hair. He was breathing heavier than usual, nothing close to panting, but heavier than usual. He had been moving quicker than usual, anyway; at his usual lethargic pace, he would not be breathing heavy at all.

Sherlock paused for a moment in untying his scarf before the slightest, sardonic smile lifted his lips. "It was fine, John."

John grinned and picked up his book from before, flipping open to his page. Sherlock had surely changed the way he looked at _everything_... and John was very grateful.

* * *

**Look, Sherlock, John can make his own deductions. Anyway! Wanted to do a character study, and I'm very fine-tuned to John. So, here! **

**Your thoughts are great! I hope you're enjoying your Week of Sherlock Holmes!**


	6. Remember Me

**4th August**

"Why do people keep things after people die."

Sherlock's voice drew John out of the half-asleep state that he had been in. Sleeping in the chair was unwise, with his shoulder as it was, but it was _so_ late and he was _utterly_ exhausted. He had been dozing, apparently, but now Sherlock brought him out of it.

"What?" he muttered sleepily, frowning at Sherlock from across the room. The detective was standing at the window, back to John, posture stiff. "What are you on about?"

"People. Hang onto things after other people are dead. What's the point." Sherlock's voice was flat, and not particularly a question, but John still felt that it demanded an answer.

"You," he paused to stretch, "you've done it yourself, Sherlock." Sherlock glanced back at him slightly. "Irene Adler's phone? It's sentiment," John said.

Sherlock's expression didn't change, although he looked back to the window. "I didn't do it for sentiment."

"Sherlock, it's sentiment, whether you say it or not."

"It's simply a reminder."

"It's a testament to her memory. A sort of trophy," John said, straightening up. "It's to remember her. Don't act like it's not."

Sherlock didn't respond for a long moment; John was beginning to drift off again when Sherlock's baritone finally broke the quiet. "What..." The voice trailed off.

"Just spit it out, Sherlock," John advised, sitting up straight again. He had to stop drifting off. He needed to get up and go to bed. He was going to do that... soon.

"What signifies me?"

John looked at Sherlock again, eyebrows knitting together. "What... what signifies you?"

"Yes. The Woman had her phone. What's mine?"

"Everything's yours, Sherlock," John replied tiredly. "The flat, the cases, the fame."

"But I don't want the fame," Sherlock retorted.

"Fine... the hat," John paused when Sherlock scoffed, "the violin, the skull..."

"Irrelevant material things."

"Material things define us, Sherlock," John replied, standing wearily. "Now, if you're done wondering about sentiment-"

"Keep my violin."

John stopped. "What?"

"... Keep my violin as a token of... me," Sherlock finished lamely, his voice taking on the tone of disgust. Like this sentiment thing was confusing and dirty. To him, it probably was.

"Sherlock, I'm older than you. I think you should be worrying about what you'll keep of me," John said, ignoring the slightest tightening he felt in his chest. He hated to think about the thought that Sherlock would go before him. He hated to envision it.

"Right..." Sherlock trailed off before shaking his head slightly. "Go to bed, John. Have a nice night."

John frowned, giving the back of Sherlock's head a strange look. Without another thought, John took his seat again. There was something not right with Sherlock. And more not right than usual was usually a sign of a danger night. Or something leading up to it.

John didn't want the violin. He would rather keep Sherlock.

* * *

**I don't know when this would happen. Obviously, sometime post-Scandal and pre-Reichenbach, but, a danger night. It's probably not... fairly... uncommon at 221B, considering the flat search John did in Scandal and how it seemed normal to him.**

**Bit of a depressing read. Don't mind me. I watched Reichenbach today.**


	7. Friends

**5th August**

"John?"

Sherlock stood abruptly, crossing the room. John had been following him up the stairs, but had come to a coughing stop at the top of the stairs.

"'fine, Sherlock. 'm fine," John muttered, in between coughs.

Sherlock frowned, standing in the doorway at he watched John. They had been out on a case- Sherlock had just taken his coat off and went to set water boiling for tea when John followed him up. The doctor had kept up fine on their chase, albeit a little slow on the grasping of deductions, but the latter was normal for the man.

Now Sherlock was looking, really observing, John. The man was slightly pale, clutching at the collar of his shirt, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was coughing, and panting for breath when he wasn't, leaning against the banister of the stairs for support.

"You're sick," Sherlock stated, blinking in almost surprise. How had he not noticed that...? How?

"No, no, I'm..." John was taken over by coughing again, half doubling over.

"Get away from the stairs, John," Sherlock commanded, crossing the landing to grip John's shoulder. John waved a hand dismissively, but Sherlock ignored the movement, guiding the doctor away from the stairs. "How long have you been feeling ill?" Sherlock inquired, voice chipped. The doctor didn't respond, or rather couldn't, at the moment, but it didn't stop Sherlock from tightening his grip on John's shoulder when he didn't get the immediate response.

"No-Not long," John muttered, clearing his throat. "Just... just in the cab."

Short amount of time between the malaise and the onset of symptoms. Narrowed down the list of possible illnesses.

"Go sit," Sherlock ordered, all but shoving the doctor into the living room. "I'll need more information, you're going to need to tell me-" Sherlock flinched when John's coughing redoubled. "... I'll get you a drink," Sherlock muttered, striding through the living room and into the kitchen. He'd make sure John got better. John _would_ get better, because Sherlock needed him.

* * *

**I'm pretty much, uh, feeling sick. Well. I don't know what's going on with me. But I'm torn between ill and scared. So. You know. My life influences these things. Haha... Plus, I wanted to end _Seven Days at 221B Baker Street_ with something... that really showed their friendship. I started in Sherlock's POV and ended there as well. So, yes, I'll shut up.**

**Thank you for following the story! I hope you all enjoyed the First Annual Week of Sherlock Holmes. Keep believing in Sherlock. Keep fighting John's war.**


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